To Be the Best (24 page)

The green foliage of wisteria growing against the manor’s white paintwork contributed greatly to the feeling of cool serenity, as did the many leafy trees shading the graceful house in the back. Lawns bordered with huge pink and white azalea bushes sloped away from the gravel driveway, and the flower gardens were situated beyond these smooth and spacious greens.

Once inside the manor, Madelana had discovered that the interiors did justice to the exterior architecture. The rooms were furnished with choice antiques, crystal chandeliers, fine old carpets and marvellous paintings, many of them French Impressionists. Later she learned that the collection had been Emma Harte’s and included works by Monet, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne and Degas.

Paula had brought her upstairs to this charming bedroom located next door to hers. Decorated in delicate shades of apricot, lime and pale blue, it was large and airy, with a high ceiling, a white marble fireplace and watercolours of Dunoon hanging on the walls. The antique four poster took pride of place, and there was a loveseat and two chairs arranged in a grouping in front of the fireplace.

Fresh flowers in vases had been placed everywhere and they permeated the room with the mingled scents of the gardens outside. The flowers were potent this morning, but Madelana did not mind.

She peered at herself in the dressing-table mirror, smoothed the brush over her hair again, and then went over to the armoire, took out tailored, grey-flannel slacks, a white silk shirt and a hand knitted jacket of a bluish-grey mohair.

After she had dressed in these clothes, she slipped her feet into a pair of brown leather moccasins, put on her gold watch and a pair of gold Tiffany shrimp earrings, and left the bedroom.

It was just after six-thirty when she pushed open the door of the breakfast room and looked inside.

The housekeeper, Mrs Carr, whom she had met last night, was nowhere in sight, but Madelana’s nose twitched at the tantalizing aromas of coffee and warm bread and ripe fruit. She noticed that these were set out on the table placed against the far wall underneath a painting of a circus clown. The round table in the middle of the octagonal-shaped room was covered with a fresh white organdy cloth and had been set with pretty floral china for four people.

Madelana went over and poured herself a cup of black coffee. She stared at the painting of the clown. Oh, it’s a Picasso, she thought, as she turned away, not at all surprised. Nothing about Dunoon could surprise her anymore. It was a magical place.

She carried her cup of coffee outside, sat down on the steps of the back verandah, and drank it slowly, enjoying the smell of the grass and green-growing things, the lemony tang of the eucalyptus trees pervading the air, listening to the stillness of nature. The silence was broken only by the twittering of the small birds and the faint rustling of the leaves under the soft breeze.

How peaceful it was here. It was the kind of peace which was only ever found in the country, and she had forgotten it existed. It’s such a luxury, she thought, and closed her eyes,
allowing the peace to penetrate her bones, to settle deep inside her. And she realized, quite suddenly, that she had not known a peace like this since her childhood.

A little later, Madelana went back into the house, deposited her cup and saucer in the breakfast room, and then wandered out to the main entrance hall. Earlier, when she had been doing her makeup, she had intended to take a stroll through the gardens in front of the house, but now she hesitated.

Opening off the other end of the foyer was the gallery. Paula had pointed it out last night on their way upstairs; they had not had time to go in then, since they were in a hurry to change for dinner. As they had mounted the grand, curving staircase together, Paula had said: ‘The gallery is hung with portraits of our McGill ancestors, but there’s also an extraordinary painting of Emma in there, which you must see, Maddy, before you leave Dunoon.’

Her curiosity of last night was aroused again, and Madelana decided to take a peek at Emma’s portrait. She would go for her walk afterwards.

The gallery was much longer than she had envisioned, with a high ceiling and a huge window at one end. The polished wood floor was bare, the walls were painted white, and a dark oak refectory table stood in the middle. A Chinese porcelain horse, quite large in size, had been placed on the table, and this appeared to be yet another priceless antique to Madelana.

She hurried down the length of the gallery, barely glancing at the portraits of the McGills, mainly interested in finding the one of Emma Harte.

When finally she stood in front of it, she caught her breath. It was extraordinary, just as Paula had said, so very lifelike, and so much better than any of those she had seen in the Harte Stores, even superior to the one at Pennistone Royal in Yorkshire.

She gazed at it for the longest time, marvelling at the vividness of the painting, and the exceptional brushwork. It had obviously been painted in the 1930s; the evening gown Emma wore was of the period and made of white satin, and Madelana felt that if she reached out, touched the painting, her fingers would rest against the real fabric. Emeralds blazed around Emma’s throat, at her ears and wrists, and there was a square-cut emerald on her left hand; the stones echoed the colour of her radiant eyes.

What small hands she had, Madelana thought, stepping closer, peering at the picture. Why, they’re so tiny, they’re almost a child’s hands.

The portrait which hung next to Emma’s was of a darkly handsome man, elegant in a white tie and tails. He had the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, a strong, very arresting face, a black moustache, and a deep cleft in his chin. Clark Gable, Maddy thought, and then smiled to herself, knowing it could not possibly be the late movie star. It was undoubtedly Paul McGill.

Tilting her head to one side, she studied the painting carefully, thoughtfully, wondering what kind of man he had been. A match for Emma Harte, she had no doubt.

Philip came running downstairs as the grandfather clock in the entrance foyer was striking seven.

He crossed the vast hall, heading in the direction of the breakfast room, when he noticed that the double mahogany doors leading into the gallery were slightly ajar. He walked over, intending to close them, and immediately saw the young woman inside. She stood at the far end, leaning towards the painting of his grandfather, studying it, and he realized she must be Paula’s American assistant.

As if she sensed his presence, she swung around swiftly. When she saw him in the doorway her eyes opened very wide
and a look of astonishment crossed her face. She stared at him intently.

And in that instant his life changed.

It seemed to Philip that all about her was the light. Not simply the bright sunlight pouring in through the big window, but the light which emanated from within her. She was an incandescent being.

He knew at once that he wanted her, and that he would have her. Philip could not comprehend how he knew this, but it flashed through his brain like a bolt of lightning striking, and he accepted it as the undeniable truth.

Slowly he began to walk forward, his riding boots clattering loudly against the wood, and the noise was overwhelming to him, a dreadful intrusion on the perfect stillness enveloping her. She stood there waiting for him, not moving, appearing hardly to breathe, still watching him intently. And his eyes did not leave her face.

She was a stranger, yet entirely familiar to him, and he experienced a deep sense of predestination – of fate – as he finally drew to a standstill in front of her.

Looking up into his face, she smiled a slow, tentative smile, and he was aware that something stupendous was happening to him, and what startled him the most was that it was happening here, in his own home, in the one place he truly loved on this planet. She continued to smile up at him, and he felt as though a burden was lifting from his shoulders, and there was the total cessation of pain; a sense of peace flowed through him.

Dimly, as though from faraway, he heard his own voice. ‘I’m Philip, Paula’s brother,’ he was saying, and he was surprised he sounded so normal.

‘I’m Madelana O’Shea.’

‘So I’d guessed.’

She put her hand in his, and he clasped it firmly; he knew he had been waiting for her all his life.

It was a great effort for Philip to let go of Madelana’s hand, but he did so – with some reluctance.

Immediately, Madelana slipped it into her pocket quickly. The feel of his strong fingers lingered, as though their imprint had been permanently burned onto hers. She shifted on her feet, and glanced away. Philip McGill Amory unnerved her.

Philip, watching her closely, said, ‘You looked surprised when I appeared in the doorway. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘I thought for a minute that Paul McGill had suddenly sprung to life – ’

His vibrant laughter cut into her sentence, echoed around the quiet gallery, and he glanced at the painting but made no comment.

‘Also,’ she went on, ‘Paula said you wouldn’t be arriving from Sydney until around noon today.’

‘I changed my mind, decided to fly up last night. I got in at eleven-thirty, but everyone was already in bed.’

She nodded, said nothing, stared up at him.

‘You were studying my grandfather’s portrait very closely.’ He gave her a lopsided grin and his bright blue eyes were full of laughter, danced teasingly. ‘Did it reveal anything to you? Secrets of his character, perhaps?’

‘I was thinking that he must have been very special, a true man, to have won Emma Harte and to have married her.’

‘From what my grandmother told me about him, Paul McGill was everything you or I could ever imagine him to have been. And
more,
I suspect,’ Philip said. There was a slight pause, before he went on in a softer tone, ‘But they
were never married, actually…his wife wouldn’t divorce him. So they took matters into their own hands, flouted convention and lived together for about sixteen or seventeen years. Until his death in 1939, in fact. I suppose what they did was considered quite scandalous in those days, but they didn’t care.’ Philip shrugged. ‘They were madly in love, wildly happy, and apparently they never regretted a thing. And naturally they adored their only child, my mother.’ There was another pause, then Philip said, ‘She’s illegitimate, of course.’

Madelana was taken aback. ‘I didn’t know that, or any of the things you’ve just told me. Paula has never said anything about your grandmother’s personal life. And what I’ve heard or read has been to do with her business achievements.’

‘Yes, she had quite a success story, didn’t she? She was so far ahead of her time. A brilliant and truly emancipated woman who showed a lot of other women the way…into big business and the corporate world. And I’m glad she did. I for one don’t know what I’d do without the women executives in our company.’

Philip chuckled, suddenly looked amused again. ‘But I’m sure everybody’s forgotten about Emma’s private life by now. It’s old history. After all, it happened so long ago. Anyway, she has become something of a mythical figure. A legend. And there are any number of keepers of the flame around, both in the family and out…who don’t want her image tarnished in any way.’ He pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘Of course, as far as I’m concerned, nothing could tarnish Emma’s image, least of all living out of wedlock with a man she truly loved – and with all her heart.’

‘I agree with you. But
why
wouldn’t she divorce him? His wife, I mean.’

‘Her religion got in the way, and rather conveniently,
I
think. Constance McGill was a Roman Catholic, and
I
feel she simply hid behind the church and its teachings in order to
frustrate Paul. She didn’t want him, but she didn’t want anyone else to have him. And she didn’t want him to be happy, that’s an
absolute
certainty. So, she put a bunch of priests and a lot of ridiculous religious mumbo-jumbo in the middle of their marital affairs, merely to confuse the issue, in my opinion.’

‘Oh – ’

Philip was acutely aware of Madelana, and he immediately saw the oddest look entering her eyes. Shrewd, sensitive, he knew instinctively that he had blundered. ‘I’ve offended you…you’re a Roman Catholic, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am, but you haven’t offended me. Honestly.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right, really Philip…’ Her voice trailed off. She glanced up at him.

Their eyes met and held. Neither of them could look away. The silence between them deepened.

As he stared into her luminous eyes, silvery, curiously transparent, Philip understood that it
was
all right. She meant exactly what she said, and would always mean it. For there was no guile in her. She was open and honest, and this pleased him. Once more, he had that peculiar feeling of familiarity. It was as if he had known her long ago, had been separated from her, and had found her again. He felt natural with her, comfortable as he had never been with any other woman, and completely at ease.
I want her,
he thought for the second time that morning.
And I aim to have her.
But go slowly, go very slowly, a voice inside him cautioned.

Madelana, held by his mesmeric blue gaze, was also filled with strange feelings, ones she had hitherto never experienced. Her throat was constricted and dry, she had a tight pain in her chest, and she was shaking inside. She was reacting strongly to Philip, physically and emotionally, and in a way she never had in her entire life, not even with Jack Miller. But then Philip McGill Amory was unique…she
had never met anyone like him before. He was so masculine, so potent, and there was all that charm. Fatal charm. He threw her off balance. And, worse still, he frightened her.

Inexplicably, Madelana thought she was about to burst into tears. She averted her head swiftly, broke the eye contact between them. She had begun to tremble, and, afraid that he would notice, she walked to the other side of the gallery.

Clearing her throat, she said, without looking back at him, ‘And which ancestor is this?’